


The Blind

by Neinja (Kanja)



Series: D - O - W - N [4]
Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanja/pseuds/Neinja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason breaks... and so does Hoyt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blind

_If Riley hates me forever… I guess that'll be my penance._

Hoyt is still in his office. Jason thinks he looks so fucking smug. Actually, he doesn’t think much of anything anymore; he’s still stuck on what happened, stuck on trying to shake it from his mind.

 

Riley’s scent is still all over him. Riley’s blood is still on his hands.

 

“I did what you asked,” Jason says, marching up to Hoyt’s desk. He’s a good sport; he puts on his winning smirk and plays it off with a good show of bravado. The whole charade is much easier, these days.

 

Vaas turns right around when he enters, sucking furiously from a shaking joint. Jason realizes that he won’t look at him. It’s strange because Vaas is usually so in his face. He wonders what’s got the pirate shy, but it’s not like it matters just this second. Jason has more than enough to deal with right now, thanks to Hoyt.

 

Hoyt shakes his head.

 

"Someday, you'll have to show me whatever it is you did to that poor sod," he laments, stroking his fingers over the screen on his desk, where Riley is still prone and moaning. Jason feels his heart seizing. "I have never seen quite a display. Have you, Vaas?"

 

"I don't give a fuck," Vaas replies.

 

"Bravo." Hoyt moves across the floor, taking Vaas's arm in his. "My esteemed colleague here does not have the stomach that I do for our human resources. He has his--"

 

Hoyt plucks the joint away, earning a dark-eyed look.

 

"--own vices. And what of you, Foster? Share a drink with us? A cigar? A..." He lifts up the pilfered smoke between them. "... joint perhaps?"

 

It’s getting harder and harder to pretend like nothing’s wrong. His Foster persona is tearing away on the horrific realization that the monitor on Hoyt’s desk has shown them everything.

 

_Vaas saw._

Jason can't even refuse the offer of the joint, even though normally he would have said he doesn't smoke. He takes the biggest hit of his life, and asks, "Do I have your fucking trust now?" In that moment, all Jason wants is to rip Hoyt to shreds, feed him in pieces to the komodo while Hoyt watches and dies slowly. His only regret is that he knows he does not have that kind of time.

 

Hoyt laughs deeply.

 

"I like you, Foster. Quick and to the point -- like a mercenary should be. There's no fucking drama with you. I don't have to worry about you presenting yourself as anything but what you are. That makes you and I the only ones here with that particular candor."

 

Hoyt's fingers catch Vaas's knife by the hilt. Vaas knows the instant the weight lifts off his flesh, but by then, the blade is already buried deep under his ribs.

 

"You'll do that--" he gestures to the screen, to Riley, "to your own _brother_ on an order. I'll say you've earned my trust a thousand-fold, Foster, Jason Brody, Snow White, whoever the **fuck** you are."

 

Hoyt slips the knife back out of Vaas's flesh as his goon slips to the ground, eyes wide. More of his privateers rush into the room, weapons raised. Jason is still standing there over Vaas’s crumpled body, eyes wide, head spinning.

 

“Jason Brody is dead,” he mutters. His own voice sounds detached in his ears, like someone else is speaking. “ _And so the fuck are you_.”

 

There’s a knife at his side, but Jason doesn’t need it. Instead, he opts for a pencil in the can on Hoyt’s desk, which he nails right into the center of the son-of-a-bitch’s hand, pinning him in place.

 

Hoyt’s screams cannot contend with the images in Jason’s mind. He sees Liza, gasping for mercy, watches himself fuck his brother all over again. He sees Vaas crash to the floor only this time Jason’s swearing, just like he had at the camp, “I won't let them touch a hair on your **fucking** head.” Some good that oath did him.

 

He sees Grant too, scowling beneath war paints and fighting by his side. The encroaching phantoms with their flashing fires are nothing compared to how quick his brother can move, compared to the strength he uses to pitch them aside like ragdolls on his way to Jason. The sight of him fills Jason with all the inspiration he needs to slam Hoyt to the ground, bearing down on him with his knife pressed against the soft flesh under Hoyt’s jaw.

 

Hoyt pleads in his corporate way. He points out Jason's potential, talks business. "Your brother," he snickers, gesturing to the screen again with what little freedom he has, "I put him on the plane. You'll want to stop that. You'll both want to stop that." There's something wrong. Hoyt's acknowledging the ghosts in Jason's head. The lines are blurring. "I knew it. I fucking knew it!" Hoyt's screaming. Jason is slammed out of his reverie. He’s so dizzy that he can’t tell what is real or unreal anymore.

 

"How the fuck?"

 

"Deal with this," says Grant, imagined or not. It sure sounds like him: curt and direct. “Do whatever you need to do to Hoyt. I’ll take care of Riley."

 

It all sounds so plausible. Grant is exactly as Jason remembers him, despite the fact that he can’t be here. It’s not until his gaze lands on Vaas that Jason isn’t so sure anymore. This is the first time he’s seen Grant looking like anything less than the perfect soldier since they landed on the island. He speaks softly, eyes locked on the fallen warrior in the corner until he disappears. "Take care of him, if you can."

 

"Of course."

 

"I believe I've already taken care of him!" Hoyt roars with laughter. "A mad dog always bites the hand that feeds it. Don't you know that? He let you come here. He knew that I recognized you."

 

Vaas doesn't look like he knows much of anything now. His eyes are glassing over, his expression far-away.

 

"It's over, Jason. You can still save yourself. Nothing is as you thought! I can make the world make sense again! _I make the fucking rules_ \-- I can restore order!"

 

Jason strikes with the knife until the bone in Hoyt’s arm shatters. The crack resounds through him like a high. "Where's the fucking formula? 52!” Jason snaps.

 

"That bullshit," Hoyt snarls. "If you think that will work for any period of time, then by all means, take the flash drive from my desk." Even pinned like a butterfly in his own office, Hoyt cannot help but laugh. "You should know as well as anyone else what it means to be insatiable."

 

"What do you fucking mean by that?" Jason sees Vaas’s eyes cracking open in his corner, watching him tear apart Hoyt’s desk in his search. It’s reassuring; he’s not dead yet. Jason imagines that it will take more than a knife to kill him.

 

"I mean that your entire world is about to spin out of control, Jason Brody," Hoyt spits, lips contorting in a ghoulish smirk. "You have dealt yourself into a game where you are outclassed. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, Brody, the moment you step out of this office, another scumbag will be out there waiting to--"

 

There's a wet noise. Vaas grunts, falling back against the wall, pale-faced and sweating. He doesn't close his eyes until Hoyt is finished choking on the dagger he's chucked through his boss's neck.

 

"Fucking..." he mutters, "hurry..."

 

“Y-Yeah.”

 

It’s so sad. Jason doesn’t have time to flay Hoyt alive like he wants to, which he regrets immensely. He will have to bestow the honor upon the next unfortunate chump who tries to fuck with his family.

 

Which is _him_ , isn’t it? Jason himself is that chump. Anyone else will have trouble topping all that he's done to destroy his brother.

 

Jason can't think about it right now.

 

"Come on Vaas, we're getting you out of here." Jason frowns as he grabs a towel to hold against Vaas' bleeding chest.

 

"You serious?" Vaas snickers darkly. His side is completely damp with blood, and he leaves a vivid red streak along the wall. "Has this jungle fucking taught you nothing?"

 

Jason barely acknowledges Vaas's cynicism with a glance while he works, tightening a knot around Vaas' wound.

 

"I've learned you lose will lose your soul, eventually."

 

But today is not that day. The only way Jason can fuck up worse would be to let his people die. That’s not happening. Tomorrow, he can deal with all this confusing bullshit tomorrow.

 

He can't even look down at Vaas as he lifts him away from the wall. It’s easier to keep an eye on Hoyt, glad to see that, unlike the rest of the dead, he seems to be staying put. “And I’ve learned that any given moment can turn out to be your last. Treasure what little you have left.”

 

"I have treasured the shit out of all my days," Vaas counters matter-of-factly, wheezing through all the blood in his throat. His hand claws at Jason's chest. "Give it to me."

 

"No. You're probably going to _die_ and all you can think about is your next high? Don't worry, I'll keep it **safe** for you." The cynicism is oozing from every pore in his body.

 

"You better fucking promise, white boy." Vaas stabs his fingers into Jason's chest, demanding his attention. "Fucking promise. Go ahead, be the fucking hero."

 

Vaas leans into Jason finally, submitting to his exhaustion. The difference between living and dying is god knows how much time between now and his next taste of 52, so he doesn't give a fuck either way and doesn’t try to help. Jason has to painstakingly drag his dead weight across the floor -- which either isn’t that much of a burden, or Jason is stronger than he thinks. Jason's eyes close tightly, acutely feeling each and every nail digging into his chest.

 

"No heroes," Jason mutters as he feels Vaas' head fall against him, “just the blind leading the blind.”

 

 


End file.
